


Love Ain’t Nothin’ But A Business Goin’ On

by Ophelia_Raine



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Business For Pleasure, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, F/M, From Sex to Love, Headaches & Migraines, Luce Bigalow Male Gigolo, Lucifer Is Not A Consultant, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Porn with Feelings, Set Towards The Very Beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26990014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: A story about business and pleasure in 100-word drabbles"They say you grant favours."His smile grows wide and predatory. “For a price, yes. Who's asking?" Her silence tells him plenty, and suddenly his mouth waters expectantly."And what would you like me to do, darling."She doesn't blink. "Me."
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 72
Kudos: 217





	1. Preview

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apocketfulofwry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocketfulofwry/gifts).



> My constant muse and cheerleader to whom I owe much of my writing tenacity.

Maze blocks him bodily at the stairs _en route_ to his elevator, her eyes glinting knives in the semi-dark.

"Someone here to see you," she says, teeth demon-sharp and white. And before he can point out the time—and the warm, nubile bodies whippy and waiting upstairs—"Trust me," she presses meaningfully, "you'll want to take this meeting."

He sighs with the longsuffering air of the cockblocked but descends the steps anyway, calling out as he does, "This had better be good..."

But then he stops when he sees her. And he knows instantly that it already is. Good.

"Hello, Detective."

* * *

She stands there with arms folded tight, hair pulled back, face pinched like a schoolmarm. Still fetching, he thinks, but really rather cross. Almost as if she cannot believe she’s found herself here.

He drops carelessly into his velvet settee and is just wondering what he’s bloody done now when she comes straight out with it, no preamble, nothing.

"They say you grant favours."

His smile grows wide and predatory. “For a price, yes. Who's asking?" Her silence tells him plenty, and suddenly his mouth waters expectantly. 

"And what would you like me to do, darling."

She doesn't blink. "Me."

* * *

He actually laughs, which is mortifying but expected. And yet it’s more a bark of surprise that isn’t unkind and settles eventually into a look of high amusement.

“Ask,” he smarms smugly, “and ye shall receive indeed.” He is practically buoyant. “If I’d known you were suggestible after all, I would have asked for a lot more than a roll in the hay—”

“Lucifer—”

“—although with me, it’s never just the _one_ roll—”

“I’d like to reach a working arrangement with you.”

Well, that finally gets his attention.

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“Sex. Once a week. And I’ll pay.”

* * *

“All my Christmases!” 

“So it’s settled, then.”

“ _Au contraire,_ Detective. Nothing is settled at all!” He jumps up from the settee with an agile grace and swoops over like a bird of prey, his eyes hooking into hers. “Where is this coming from,” he demands softly, suddenly beside her and far too close. “Why are you doing this?”

“I want a professional.”

“I offered a freebie or ten. A day.”

“I’ll pay,” she insists, “because your… TripAdvisor rating is… high.”

Lucifer smirks.

“And it’s never more than just sex for you. Nothing deeper. Just what I want.”

He stops smirking. 

* * *

“So do we have a deal?”

“A deal with the Devil?” His laugh is throaty and ironic. “Signed, sealed, delivered. I’m yours, Detective.”

He sounds delighted. A little _too_ delighted.

It’s only now that Chloe Decker wonders — distant alarm bells ringing — if perhaps she’s bitten off more than she can ever chew.

But she sticks her hand out anyway, her jaw clenched and resolute. Lucifer seems to find her resolve particularly amusing and his grin is bordering on lascivious when he grips her hand firmly, then brings it to his lips.

His warm breath ghosts her skin. “This won’t be cheap, Detective.” 

* * *

She nods stiffly. “Name your price.”

He does and it’s such a lowball, she’s instantly insulted.

“I _can_ pay,” she snaps. 

“Darling, it honestly feels like I’m having my cake and eating you too.”

“There must be a fee,” she insists. “This is non-negotiable.”

“Fiiiine,” he sighs like a martyr and plucks another figure closer to the going rate of a bored hooker. It still feels scandalous, like he’s double-dipping. 

But that assuages his solemn detective finally, who almost smiles before she turns on her heel to go.

He catches her fingers and pulls her in smoothly. 

“Not so fast.”

* * *

It’s the closest she’s ever stood next to him, pressed up like this, like dancers. 

She supposes she ought to get used to this, seeing how they just shook hands on the horizontal rumba. All the same, he is dizzyingly close and her heart is starting to gallop so fast, she’s paranoid he’ll hear and smirk.

“Yuh?”

“I’ve heard,” he begins conversationally, “that in business, it’s quite customary for clients to... ‘try before they buy’?”

A subtle shift of hip presses his point home.

“We’ve already cut the deal,” she manages to deadpan.

“Then consider this a preview,” he suggests. 

* * *

Blood rushes down low instantly, but there’s just enough to keep the brain ticking along yet.

“Conditions,” she remembers with effort, pressing a firm hand on an even firmer pec. “No kissing.”

“What!” He is aghast. “That’s half the fun!”

“Not on the mouth,” she relents and a light glints in his obsidian eyes.

“Rather _Pretty Woman_ of you,” he observes. “Very well. Here’s mine: no screaming about Dad or Josh.”

“... Josh?”

“Christ,” he supplies helpfully. “I won’t bring up Penelope or Detective Douche during coitus, so I’d appreciate the courtesy returned.”

“I’m not a screamer!”

“Not yet, you’re not.”

* * *

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. Like she’s exasperated instead of something else entirely.

“Very fine,” he agrees, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear before she feels his lips brush the hollow behind her jaw. It's maddening how her legs soften instantly. 

But he simply catches one behind the knee as if expecting it to fail, hitching it up nearish his waist as his tongue uncovers all her ticklish spaces so her nipples grow taut and curious.

“There’s a first time for everything,” he reminds her, sinfully certain. “So tell me — what is it you _really_ desire?”

* * *

“Uh…” The Detective scrunches her face like the effort hurts her head. “I don’t know, actually,” she admits, rather perplexed. 

He stops in mid-nuzzle, pulls back and stares but she’s really taking this seriously now. Like, on a whole existential level. 

“Trixie — my daughter — to turn out OK, maybe? Also, that I can watch her grow old? And just… a simple life. No complications at work. No more men — _god_ , no more men! Sorry. I didn’t mean to use the G-word.”

Lucifer is just gawking at her. Like it’s the first time he’s properly _seeing_ her. 

* * *

“Is that what you really want, Detective?” he tries again, dialing it up, eyes smouldering. Just to be sure. His voice has turned the sort of velvet that has made lesser nuns cream themselves. 

Chloe Decker blinks, then frowns. “Are you therapizing me? Now?”

 _Bloody hell!_ Lucifer rears back, alarmed. Either his mojo’s a-go-go or the Detective is somehow unhuman. He tamps down the desperate urge to check her teeth, though he does slide his hand underneath her shirt, running it past her bra strap to feel between her shoulder blades.

“You really blow hot and cold,” her voice catches. 

* * *

“Do you really not feel compelled to tell me what you desire?” he asks, eyes searching hers. She feels like she’s missing something monumental when she shakes her head slightly.

He is _such_ a strange man.

“But you feel this?” And he unhooks her bra in a trice, nimble hands, playful fingers coming ‘round her front now to cup and knead. Eyes boring into hers.

She nods with some difficulty. 

“Is there something wrong?” she wonders aloud as he unbuttons her top with efficient dexterity, as he peels off her bra. 

“It’s… different.” His gaze is inscrutable. “Different is… good.”

* * *

He’s never done this without a running commentary or clit notes before. It’s rather humanising in a wholly refreshing way. 

And most certainly arousing. Like bonking blindfolded, he realises, where every touch is a discovery and all other senses are heightened tenfold.

He walks her towards the bar until they hit the counter. There, he drops her slowly, her back arching over the glass as he runs his hand possessively down her centre, as his fingers trail south until he reaches her pants. He makes quick work of them too.

“Hang onto something sturdy,” he warns, sinking to his knees.

* * *

At first, she can’t help feeling self-conscious. In hindsight, she might have known he’d try something tonight. But it honestly hadn’t occurred to her until now that she should have gotten a trim at least. Tidied up the business end, so to speak.

All such thoughts perish the moment she feels the heat of his mouth on hers below. And Judas Fluffing Priest Alrighty, but doesn’t he know _exactly_ how to use his!

Actually, it’s almost getting too much. Like he’s shot right past Mt Pleasant and bounded off somewhere else. Like a rabbit vibrator gone wild. 

“Ouch!” he yelps.

* * *

“Sorry!” she cries, letting go immediately.

“Easy on the grabby hair, darling,” he explains, smoothing down his coiffure meticulously. He looks a little shocked himself, like he hadn’t expected such an outburst either. 

She’s still at a loss for words until he regroups. 

“Tell me,” he says almost stiffly, “how you usually… like it.”

She actually blushes. 

“Gentler,” she hazards a guess. “Although,” she analyzes further, “the… pressure… was amazing. Just the speed.”

“Got it,” he replies shortly and then settles back to work.

She’s still reeling from the whiplash of it all when she feels the tide rolling in.

* * *

At first, it’s faraway and nebulous. Like a storm forecasted on a mild spring day. 

But then she starts to feel each devious flick of tongue, the way it flattens and plumbs her depths with such relish before sharpening to circle that little pearl at the top… 

The precision of his lips as they purse over that prize before he gently suckles and then _tugs_ …

She moans. The sound is a long, wanton extraction that’s deeply obscene and then she feels his fingers slide in and she arches again.

He sucks hard and curls _there_. And then she falls apart.

* * *

As Lucifer massages the Detective into a languorous afterglow, he finally feels vindicated after that uncharacteristic false start. 

The fact that he’d faltered at all fills him with no small degree of chagrin, unease, and… a distinct hope for _adventure_.

After all, when was the last time the Devil felt such a delicious thing?

For now, he helps her off the counter gallantly and admires the mussed hair and flushed cheeks. Her pinched expression, too, is gone, leaving in its stead a small, grateful smile that actually feels genuine.

“I’ll see you next week,” she decides. He’ll hold her to that.


	2. Multiple

She arrives after work and tries not to overthink why she bothered keeping spare clothes in the car. Or why she’d only showered after everyone had left. Or why she’s wearing a dress for fuck’s sake.

If he guesses any of that at all, he doesn’t say. Instead, he pours her a stiff drink and quietly takes in how _she’s_ taking it all in. The lay of his land. This sprawling penthouse.

It’s painfully obvious that he doesn’t need her money. But it’s the principle of the thing, of course.

She sets her drink down. “Two more rules,” she says.

* * *

“You really know how to take the fun out of things,” he grumbles.

“First,” she ignores him, “no one can know about us.”

“Oo~ooo!” he whoops gleefully like a schoolboy. “She said _us!_ ”

“And second — I will undress myself.”

He blinks slowly. “Suit… or rather _un_ suit yourself,” he replies, tilting his head at her like she’s a curiosity.

For a strange moment, she wonders if she’s actually hurt his feelings. 

But that would be ridiculous. This is _Lucifer_ they’re talking about. Of all people, he should understand how this isn’t personal. 

How this is just a means to an end.

* * *

The throbbing in her head grows more obnoxious when she raises her arms to reach the back zip. To his credit, he doesn’t help her. He doesn’t even leer. He just sits there on his tan leather couch that probably costs more than a quarter of her annual salary and simply watches her.

It’s hardly a striptease. In one zip, the dress drops to the ground and she kicks it away. She dispenses with her bra and panty just as dispassionately.

“Your turn,” she tells him and then waits as he gets his own kit off, starting with his cufflinks. 

* * *

He’s right — she is a strange one. And bossy. And _wound up_. And it’s just as well he’s been given the happy honour of replacing that rigid police baton up her arse with something infinitely more pleasurable: _him._

It’s hardly an imposition. Even with her shapeless ‘80s boyfriend blazers and that lamentable Fräulein Helga hair, she fools no one: Chloe Decker is… beautiful. There’s a natural hauteur in that greyhound-sleek body. A generosity in those lips he’s not allowed to kiss. 

She’s one tough nut with a caramel centre. 

He remembers how she tastes and feels himself grow harder.

* * *

His interest is undeniable and by the time he’s done stripping, she’s properly wet. Aching. Every nerve is at silent screaming attention when he comes to her, looms over her, before he wordlessly dips his head and trails kisses down her face, up her jawline, down the back of her spine, round her hip until he is back on his knees and at the mercy of her sex.

“You look different,” he comments mildly, running his thumb over the smoothened mound and spreading her arousal as he does. 

She just shrugs helplessly.

“A considerate gesture,” he acknowledges kindly. “But unnecessary.”

* * *

She feels stupid now.

“Don’t,” he adds, reading her face. “I think it’s rather sweet, actually. That you thought a little blonde fuzz could possibly turn me off.” 

She trembles when he buries his face in her core, his hands sliding up to her buttocks as he holds her to him. Then she melts as he eats her ravenously, relentlessly, exactingly until she’s appalled at how quickly she’s almost climaxing.

She doesn’t pull his hair this time but practically climbs his shoulders as she grinds herself in his face. Her throat is hoarse when she comes. 

“See?” He grins. “Screamer.” 

* * *

She’s still breathing hard, her chest visibly rising and falling, when he hoists her easily, wrapping her long legs around his waist like she weighs nothing at all. 

His sheets are cool satin and her skin is fire. She gazes, dazed, at her naked self in his ceiling mirror right before he climbs over her, sleek like a panther, and laves her breasts hotly till she squirms. His shoulders, his back, his arse, his legs are an exquisite map of corded muscle so sublime, it starts to overwhelm her. 

“I-I should go,” she announces, though her hands clutch his sheets.

* * *

Lucifer stops instantly and pulls back, staring down at her with a frown.

“But we’ve only just started!”

“I’m sorry,” she replies curtly. “I never planned to stay this long… I’m sure you can… handle yourself.” She looks pointedly at his luscious erection now bobbing back at her in amiable agreement. 

“I’m not talking about _him_ ,” he waves impatiently. “I’m talking about you!” He seems genuinely aggrieved. “Whoever heard of leaving a rollercoaster ride after just one whoop!”

“Lucifer, it’s fine—”

“—And you’re _paying!_ ”

“I’ve just never been a multiple-O sort of woman, alright?” she finally explains, wanting to die.

* * *

His face is a picture.

"But… You've been married!" 

"Yes."

"And you’ve never…?" 

"No." 

"Not even…" He holds up two fingers with much consternation and she actually reddens, turning her head into his feather pillow and willing it to swallow her whole.

His voice suddenly gentles. "Is that why you’re divorced?”

She turns back to scowl at him mightily. “Not exactly, no.” _But it might’ve been part of it,_ he can’t help reading.

“You’re not broken, you know.” His hands — large, warm, sure — skirt down her body until his fingertips part her.

“Let me show you,” he coaxes.

* * *

The silence is unnatural. He’s used to hearing a litany of cravings by now, instead of this… politeness.

“You’re awfully tense,” he murmurs, stubble grazing her inner thigh. “Are you always this tense?”

“I’m relaxed!” she protests. 

“Pfft,” he snorts. “Detective, you’re the most uptight woman I’ve met!”

“And you don’t seem capable of taking much seriously,” she retorts. 

“Why, thank you.” 

“Also, some of us have to work,” she points out grimly, leaning her head back in his pillows as she tries to forget. 

It isn’t always easy to forget. 

_She’d come to him to forget,_ he understands suddenly. 

* * *

“Do you trust me?” he asks. Her eyes widen.

“What?” 

“I said, do you trust me, Detective?” He leans over to the sidetable and slides the drawer open. The Hermes scarf from the afternoon’s romp is still in there. _Good_.

“What are you doing?”

“With your permission, Detective, I’d like to blindfold you.”

She props herself up on her elbows, suddenly wary. “Why.”

“Because you need to relax.” He arches an eyebrow. “So do you trust me or not?”

Silence as he watches her pathological need for control war with her logical mind. 

“Alright,” she acquiesces slowly.

“Close your eyes.”

* * *

The dull throbbing returns to her head like a Chinese gong.

She _loathes_ this, she thinks. It’s a _terrible_ idea, she tells herself even as she feels a voluptuous ache in her sex start to build. She tries to peek down past her nose but the bastard cottons on and chuckles as he flicks off the light.

She doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Where he’s going next. All she knows is that he’s aggravatingly gentle, the trail of his talented tongue leaving her skin tingling in its wake, the graze of his searing breath turning her hips molten.

* * *

She bucks when his fingers brush the folds of her sex, coating his fingers a little.

“Lucifer,” she whispers.

At last.

“Hmm? What is it, Detective?”

“Just—” Her hips strain from the bed, seeking his touch. “Just—please.”

“You’ve gotta tell me, Luv.” He reasons mildly. “Do you want it soft? Or slow? Or—”

“Hard,” she grits out. “Rough,” she confesses, turning her head away as if ashamed.

He leans in suddenly, his heart squeezing with a strange joy he’s not entirely sure about. He kisses the corner of her mouth. A deal is a deal.

Then he obliges her. Thoroughly.

* * *

She comes once as he’s knuckles-deep in her, the force of her climax slamming her hard into his bed as she writhes, her cries strangled in her throat so he worries she forgets to breathe.

She sobs the second time, just the one shuddering gasp when he flips her deftly on her knees and slides three fingers in again, brand new angles setting her off anew. 

But it’s when he turns her on her side; when he curls around and behind her, protective; when he glides _up_ and _in_ and _home_ that she cries his name. 

And he loses himself.

* * *

She’s still breathing, the visible rise and fall of her chest gentle and even as she sleeps, in his bed, like the dead.

_La petite mort._

She’s a different creature now. Unbuttoned. Relaxed. 

Lucifer Morningstar lights a Sobranie before he sinks into his armchair to watch her. Puzzle her. This severe and beautiful and difficult and layered human woman. 

_Ain’t nothin’ but a business goin’ on_ , he reminds himself. He smirks at that, then takes a long, slow drink of his aged scotch. He’d broken out the Glenfarclas. Tonight just feels like a kind of celebration.

Why, he cannot tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, they're off — officially! I hope it was enjoyable for you too, heh heh. 
> 
> BTW, never did get to ask — how do you find the drabbling (100-word chunks)? Good, bad, indifferent? It certainly changes the way I usually write and makes me really weigh the necessity of each word but I'd be interested to know how you find it as a reader. 
> 
> Also, think the Detective's gonna be coming back anytime soon? ;-)


	3. Change

He throws himself into work in the days after, entertaining like a demon, playing long into the night. 

Like hapless moths to his incandescent flame, they drift over. And if Lucifer turns out to be their desire—and he almost always is— _well_.

He doesn’t deny them anything later.

Night Six. For shits and giggles, he chooses the butch, the Quaker, and that candy stick of a Laker. He troops them upstairs and works them hard, _so_ hard. Because he’s indefatigable, but now… he’s restless, too.

A week can feel like an eternity. This is how the devil waits.

* * *

Three long exhales later, she finally calls for his private elevator. 

_No sleepovers this time,_ Chloe warns herself sternly. _No sneaking out before daybreak—just so it doesn’t count._

And she _will_ get a grip, she shivers. No matter how mind-blowing it gets tonight, she _will_ _not_ lose her head.

But then the doors slide open and he’s _there_ and _leaning_ and _smirking_. And her mouth goes treacherously dry.

“Can’t stay long,” she chokes out eventually. "Have to… Trixie. Soon.”

"Well chop-chop then, Detective!" Lucifer purrs, unbuttoning his shirt while undressing her with his eyes. 

"Kiss-kiss," he husks in her ear. "Bang-bang."

* * *

_In for a penny, in for a…_

Her knees are raw and her hair, a mane. Her fingers are curled over the back of his leather seat cushions like she’s clinging for dear life. 

She’s gasping to the beat of his drum, every thrum of him sliding deep into her an aphrodisiac. 

But it’s when he stretches over her… When he reaches for her hand, fingers weaving into her own…

 _When he moans because of her…_

Whiteness and a purity. A blinding, cleansing purgatory where all else ceases to be and memory is wiped.

This is what she comes for.

* * *

“What do you think you’re doing?

He’s all innocence when he peers over her head at their reflection in the full-length mirror. 

She fits perfectly under his chin when she’s soft and pliant. Smiling.

“Why, helping you into this fetching lace brassiere, of course.” His finger trails lazily down the length of her spine.

“I—”

“You only told me not to _un_ dress you,” he counters smugly. And because she’s still too legless to fight him, she stops fighting him at all. 

He takes his own sweet time. Then he tickles her near the finish and watches, spellbound, as she laughs.

* * *

This— _them—_ starts to feel more familiar in the weeks after, but not routine.

Never routine.

“Hey… why do you keep asking what I desire?” 

The morning sun is riding high so it streams in from the balcony and hits the bed, bathing her bare skin in light. It feels almost too warm. But she doesn’t want to move as she waits for his answer.

“It’s more than just checking in on me,” she probes, detective senses tingling. But he only smiles enigmatically before idly slipping his longest finger into her core. She sucks in her breath and trembles, annoyingly aroused. 

* * *

His seed is still inside her, mingled now with the fresh rush of her desire—but he doesn’t seem to mind. She watches in fascination as he draws out that finger slowly and proceeds to trace mystical sigils around her folds, her mound, her ticklish tummy, before dipping into her once again like she were an inkpot. 

Her breath shallows. But she’s not so easily sidetracked.

“Sometimes it feels like you’re asking… as if you’re trying to test yourself,” her voice hitches, unsteady. 

“And then sometimes it feels like you’re asking… just because you want to hear me say it.” 

* * *

“You really are a stubborn thing,” he sighs finally and rolls onto his front to prop his face on his hands. She flashes him a look of girlish triumph and he can’t help but crack a grin to match her own.

She can be so surprisingly easy to please.

“I ask… because I want to know,” he begins, searching to explain both the obscure and the obvious. “And I want you to tell me because, Detective…”

His eyes arrest hers and she stills suddenly, heart fully alert.

“You’re the only one I have to trust to give me the truth.”

* * *

When she turns up only four days later, he doesn’t make the obvious quip about finally guessing her ambitions. He’s just delighted she’s spared him the fucking wait.

It takes him a full minute to realise she’s scowling, her face pinched and wan.

Challenge accepted.

“Don’t,” she almost snarls as he strides to her, lascivious and glinting. “I mean it, Lucifer!” she warns as she stumbles back before gracefully streaking away.

 _Solomon’s gazelle_ , he marvels, hardening.

Her shrieks dissolve to laughter when he finally catches her, tossing her easily over one shoulder as he carries her off to his bed. 

* * *

It’s in the fourth or fifth denouement, when her cheeks are flushed and the sheen of her sweat has started to cool on his skin, that he thinks to have his little turn.

“Why do you need this?” he asks, gesturing at his refreshed erection.

She flushes but answers honestly.

“Because I get really bad migraines.”

“Oh?” It’s not what he’d expected. But it does explain some things. 

_And yet…_

“Sex is infinitely tastier than Tylenol,” he agrees, sweeping her fringe gently from her eyes. “That your only reason, Detective?”

“Yes,” she replies, inscrutable. 

This time he knows she’s lying.

* * *

She knows he knows she’s lying.

“It’s doctor’s orders,” she insists when she senses him pulling away, his beautiful face shuttering. “I’ve tried everything, believe me… Sex, _this—_ ” 

_Us,_ she doesn’t say.

“—it’s the only thing that gets rid of them.”

“Of course, Detective,” he answers smoothly. “What better way to distract yourself from pain than by flooding your body with pleasure.” His grin barely crinkles his kohl-lined eyes. 

“Question remains, of course: what do you need _me_ for?” He shrugs. “You could’ve just flown solo.” 

Consternation flits across her face, along with hungry shame. 

_You’re kidding me,_ he softens. 

* * *

He knows it’s not all she’s telling him. 

But for now, there are more pressing, urgent things.

Their doppelgängers stare back at them through Louis Philippe’s florid floor mirror, gilded bronze leaves framing the pair in a pose so risqué, he feels the Detective shiver in his arms and blush anew. 

He’s got her sitting before him on her shins, thighs spread back against his own wide and unashamed. He’s got her looking at herself. At her _touching_ herself. She watches him watching her through the looking glass and she’s never bewitched him more.

He whispers praises until she unravels. 

* * *

The collective noun for three twittering Brittanys—like magpies—might well be ‘charm’. And Maze has outdone herself: they are certainly charming tonight, Lucifer concedes. 

Then again, they could turn out to be a ‘murder’. Or a ‘gulp’. _A gulp of Brittanys,_ Lucifer finally decides as he stares at the blonde with the promising mouth of a small hoover.

“Mmfh,” he hears himself say instead, shrugging them away. “Another night, darlings,” he promises hollowly as he wends his way up the main stair.

Maze crowds him at the top of it, her eyes narrowed and scornful.

“You’ve changed,” she sneers.

* * *

“Always so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” She leans in, her eyes beady and knowing. “The Lord of Hell would never have walked away from that fuck-cluster.”

“The Lord of Hell,” Lucifer replies silkily, “will do whatever… and _whomever_ … he damn well pleases.” 

Maze presses herself against him. “Prove it,” she goads, cupping him firmly over his zip. “I’ve got time to burn.”

His eyes flare into burning coal. “Careful, Mazikeen…” 

There’s a wordless impasse as she bares her teeth but eventually, she releases him. “It won’t work out, you know,” she taunts. “You and your little human.” 

“Not when you’re the Devil.” 

* * *

It gnaws at him like a small torture of razorblades and he’s still brooding when the Detective arrives, her presence warming his neck like a caress.

But the moment he reads her face, the razorblades are summarily tossed and forgotten.

“Bad day at the office, Detective?” he hazards a guess. “You look like death warmed over. And I should know,” he adds wryly. But he takes her by both hands and leads her to his most comfortable Lawson chair. 

“Now tell me, Detective,” he entreats her, “what’s weighing on your mind?”

“Revenge,” she confesses and starts to tear. 

* * *

His chest actually tightens. 

“Detective?”

“Or punishment… justice? But I want them to _suffer_ , dammit!”

“If there’s one thing I’m _the_ professional of, it’s punishment,” he smirks. “But back up, darling. And perhaps make like that irksome singing nun and start at the very beginning.”

She ignores him for now, her mind a million miles away until his magical fingers steal into her hair and work her temples. Chloe slides down in the leather seat and groans, some of her misery leaking out as he rubs down her neck expertly.

“What was your last job like?” she asks eventually.

* * *

“Literally hell,” he clips back, then gentles his tone as he adds, ruefully, “I am the best there is. _Was_ ,” he corrects himself with a frown. 

“You don’t have to give me specifics,” Chloe assures them both. She had long suspected the necessity for plausible deniability where Lucifer is concerned. 

Still, she can’t help her curiosity.

“You said you used to… punish?”

_“Oui.”_

“Like the Devil,” she adds, remembering his persona.

“Exactly,” he replies, his voice sounding strange.

“Did you like your job?”

His fingers still. 

“It was forced upon me,” he replies bitterly. “And I was brilliant at it.”

* * *

“Then again, I _am_ brilliant at most things,” he adds as an afterthought and somehow Chloe knows this isn’t a boast but a statement of fact. 

“I really love being a detective,” she starts haltingly. “There’s no better feeling in the world than solving a case, finding the murderer, and seeing justice meted out. And… I’m good at it,” she almost whispers at the end.

“I believe you,” Lucifer replies gravely.

“It’s just that sometimes… being so close _all the time_ to such… _evil_ ,” she sighs, resting her cheek in his open, waiting palm.

“It gets punishing,” Lucifer finishes feelingly. 

* * *

“Because, Detective,” he expounds slowly, “as necessary as it is to punish the guilty… as punishers, _we_ often pay a price, too. It’s dreadfully unfair, this justice business. An ironic occupational hazard. It’s why I packed it in finally and got out."

“You know,” Lucifer muses, rounding her chair to drop into the one next to hers, “you and I have more in common than we think. Have you ever thought of taking a holiday?”

She finally laughs a little.

“Why do you think I keep returning, Lucifer?” She smiles. “You take my mind off things. I come to escape.”

* * *

Her smile falters now.

“Except lately, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About what, Detective?”

That haunted look seeps into her face again and it _moves_ him profoundly, like a slow punch in the gut. He’s almost outraged that such obvious pain should affect him so, but it does. It hollows him out and he’s almost jittery with anxiety now, his words coming out sharper than he intends.

“What’s wrong, Detective!”

“It’s a case. A nasty one,” she swallows. “We suspect it’s a paedophile ring… but children are _missing_.” She whispers the last, clearly upset.

“We found Trixie’s friend yesterday.”

* * *

He’s only met the Detective's urchin once and even though small humans are _really_ not his bag, the idea that one should be _used_ and _discarded_ fills Lucifer with a burning rage.

“Is she dead?” he asks woodenly and watches as the Detective’s heart breaks.

“How,” he asks with difficulty. _“Who?”_ he seethes.

She shakes her head. “We suspect a network of clients with real deep pockets. We know the handle for one of them: Genghixxx. With three exes.”

She doesn’t see how Lucifer stills.

“I lost it when I saw Molly’s body,” she confesses. She sounds so small. Shattered. 

* * *

Screaming blue murder and then falling apart over the body while working a case doesn’t help her credibility as a homicide detective.

They’re planning to take her off this case. She can just feel it. 

_Over my dead body,_ she wants to yell, swiping her tears silently.

She shouldn’t be here. She should be with Trixie.

She doesn’t know what the hell to tell her little girl.

“Come here,” she hears him say meanwhile. 

And then he says it. 

“Chloe…”

She crawls over her chair and into his. She buries her face in his neck. He holds her tight.

* * *

She comes to him to escape and forget and receive effective pain relief. 

She’d said so herself. It’s what she’s paying him for, allegedly.

Did she ever guess, he wonders now as she wets his Canali shirt with her tears, what sort of price he’d end up paying instead? 

He feels wretched and wonderful and terrible and tender all at once. It feels like falling—and it’s _terrifying_.

He nuzzles her face absently and hatches a temporary plan.

“Detective,” he murmurs, “do you know what might take your mind off things?”

He whispers in her ear and watches her toes curl.

* * *

The City of Angels is spread out before her like an endless glittering ocean ebbing into the night sky. It’s a powerful, heady view fit for a king and there’s nothing between her and the city and a five-hundred-foot drop, save the wall of glass she’s pressed up against.

Chloe shivers, bare skin hot and cool and slick as he pins her from behind. As he murmurs dark desires in a velvet voice while he takes her fully, madly, deeply.

It’s the loudest she’s ever cried, the wail of her capitulation low and feral as the wind carries it away.

* * *

She’s still trembling when he carries her to his bed, overcome and raw. He’s still desperate to relieve her. To wipe the slate of her troubled mind clean. 

But this time she matches him and soon he’s on his back, hair cascading over her breasts. Stealing his breath as she takes and takes from him in a frenzy.

 _It’s an honour,_ he realises, his mouth falling into an O, that she would trust him enough with these broken pieces. To fall apart so utterly and loose and lose. 

He runs his hand down the length of her body, suddenly possessive.

* * *

He pulls out just when she comes. She’s a living vision with her head thrown back in sobbing ecstasy as he spills on her skin. 

Slowly he rolls them and lays her back down on his sheets. He settles over her, brushes her hair from her face and is appalled by his own tenderness.

“Shh,” he hears himself say, “it’s alright, shh…” 

She’s so close, her lips just a moment from his own. She parts them as if in question. 

But a deal is a deal.

He turns away instead, his stubble grazing her skin as he licks her clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo sorry this has taken me so long. I have quite a demanding work life and we've officially entered the silly season. 
> 
> And yes, CHANGE! And also, sorry we're back to this being 4 chapters instead of 5. I think I managed to pack more progression into this chapter than what I'd initially planned and unless the next chapter goes for a walkabout and surprises us all, it should be the last of this little mini romp.
> 
> Also, this has been a thoroughly enjoyable chapter to write. I love smut. But smut with feels gets me truly gooey, especially when it comes to these two. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have putting it together. 
> 
> As always, I love having a chat so please, don't be a stranger! 
> 
> *Kiss-kiss*


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